Nothing of Words
by Sketchypheebs
Summary: What Alyssa sees now is a projection of an unidentified event and life. She is well aware of her state which stops her from screaming out to any living person to end her torturous existence in a rotting body with a mind apart from the one she struggles to hold in her grip. What does a Walker see when they roam with eyes and limbs intact? Rating may rise in future chapters. R/R plz!


**Prologue**

My name is Alyssa Moreno. Maybe you can see the remnants of a couple of my features, but I can't be sure if they are still there. I had eyes that were almost black, just dark enough to be sufficient to serve a desired purpose, whether over the course of my life that purpose was intimidation of my enemies, seduction of my love interest, or conveyance of an occasional appearance of caring for someone I loved. I prided myself on my perfect complexion, so light it was almost deathly, creating a striking contrast with my dark hair. Sadly, I can't deny that my complexion could be described as anything but truly deathly. In the few instances I have caught a glimpse of it, I felt even more ashamed, for not only had it lost the last traces of any lively glow, it was now blemished with black flesh and oozing wounds who's origins I couldn't remember.

I have to assume that everyone else in my horde is experiencing the same prison I am in. Every last one among these thousands of monsters wandering around on the freezing pavement must be watching their own movements through their eyes as though it were projected on a screen. I remember that I loved movies while I still had control, and it could easily be concluded that the one I must stare at eternally would have been one of weak plot and dull characters. Because, really, how interesting could I ever be? I can still think but when I make brief eye contact with other people who have passed and their eyes are almost soulless. Only once every now and then do I perceive a glint in a bloodshot eye, one that screamed for help, or maybe even recognition.

Over the course of my life, I never budged from my home in New York City. Manhattan was my sanctuary. Some said that one could feel far too small in such a crowded place, but I had always argued that the closeness of so many individual minds only served to remind that one was unique, for not a single mind among that of the individual held the same secrets. The nuances of individuality, the streaks of hardness and caring acquired in years of being could never be the same. It pains me so much to have to look so many bodies in the eyes, and to know that I will never catch a glimpse of the mind hiding behind their stretched, gaunt, and mangled faces. They will never know that I too have a mind behind my own exterior.

I know where I am. I walk down what we used to call Park Avenue, and sometimes I am reminded my street signs that still cling to their posts that I am moving closer to my old home. I wish with all my rotting being that I could be able to wince when I feel one impact after another. There are too many people, and they all seem to be moving against my direction. I'm still not allowed any agility dodge approaching bodies, so I can only listen to the bumps, and I feel my face contort as I snarl like an animal on occasion. I'm still not sure whether these displays of aggression are meant to ward away those who are in my path, or if perhaps I am frustrated for lack of a decent meal. The only instances in which I have the luxury of a flash of insight on the primal urges of my body, the words never changed in mind, the word, 'Eat' reverberating without pause. And so now as I continue down Park Avenue, I pray that not a soul has the misfortune to cross my path. I would certainly attack without hesitation, and if my victim were a weak child or wounded animal, I would finish them off in no time. Still, I could hope that my path crosses with that of an angry survivor who has realized what he must do to resist being thrown into my prison. He has to take me down, and he has to make sure that I stay that way. If there were a man who possessed a working gun, a sharp blade, or heavy and blunt object, I would be thankful for death. Regardless of the method he uses to destroy my infected brain, it would be merciful. But as I continue to watch the screen in front of my eyes, the absence of life makes me fear that such a man no longer exists to show me the mercy I crave.

Even more maddeningly, I wonder why we do not wish to consume the thousands of masses of dead flesh all around us. Why do people like me have to discriminate between races for which they wished to eat? I wonder if there is a difference between humans and us. If we could tear into each other's flesh with such ferocity we show to conscious flesh, surely our kind would be able to obliterate itself and survivors could find something good to live for again. I wish I myself could give them that gift.

I wonder when my feet will decide to stop walking. For now, I will not use my eyes as a screen. The only one I have that can help me forget this hell for a moment is in my imagination and in my memory.


End file.
